


nightcall | heathen

by invisibledeity



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: M/M, also some gun related violence, and prompto surprises himself, ardyn wants to play a game, dubcon, set during world of ruin, shameless sex really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-06
Updated: 2018-02-06
Packaged: 2019-03-14 20:10:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13597461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/invisibledeity/pseuds/invisibledeity
Summary: Ardyn’s looking as sly and cunning as usual when he corners you in the abandoned facility  |  Just as you expected, the blond Magitek boy is here.You glower at him, but your pulse is racing  |  It’s hard not to laugh; he looks like a kitten trying to mewl.A detail of an unexpected encounter in Niflheim, the same situation, from two points of view.Pick your chapter, pick your poison.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for @bestchocobro and partner, so I do hope you enjoy~

**nightcall** /heathen

 

Ardyn’s looking as sly and cunning as usual when he corners you in the abandoned facility, although you’ve got to admit, the years of waiting in darkness for Noctis to return have really done a number on his complexion. It’s more than just the Scourge; he seems tired, tired of the long-drawn-out queue to the finish line after so many years stuck in limbo.

            You don’t have all the details, but he revealed to you at least some things while you were captured all those years ago.

            Anyway, he looks at you and he seems utterly pleased despite the tiredness, because he’s busy swaying — almost sashaying — over to you in that ridiculous way of his. And he opens his mouth, poised on the edge of a sentence, and speaks.

            ‘Fancy meeting you here.’ The same phrase he used when greeting your party after the audience with Titan. You don’t find it funny.

            ‘Fuck you.’

            ‘Now, Prompto, that’s hardly what I’d call a warm welcome.’ Is he making a pun about the weather?

            You glower at him, but your pulse is racing.

            What do you do in a situation like this?

            He doesn’t seem disappointed in you, yet, which is a first. Instead there’s just that mild amusement that accompanies his piss-poor attempt at a joke.

            Maybe he wants to play.

            At any rate, you decide to ask.

            ‘What do you want, huh?’

            ‘I want,’ — and here he idly picks a fingernail, casts a wanton glance over your body — ‘you.’

            ‘M-me?’

            He looks almost exasperated.

            ‘Yes, you. Come on, Prompto — for old time’s sake! Come on and humour an old man now, will you?’

            You edge away, gun in your grasp, ready to raise and fire should you need it. You already know it won’t kill him — you’ve tried that before — but at least it would stagger him for a bit. Enough to run away.

            ‘I don’t think so.’

            ‘I’ll give you one chance to get out of here unscathed. If you don’t, if I catch you, well…’ He lets the sentence trail off, and the uncertainty is the worst.

            You don’t want him to see you tremble. So instead you focus on his hair. It’s wild and wavy, and beneath those wine red strands (fraying out like Noctis’s hair and gods, how he’s trying to angle his jaw, how you’re trying not to think about it) his face is quite … attractive, despite the clear fatigue. He’s world-weary, that’s all it is, or so he’d likely claim. But beneath that he’s as grand and strong-featured as any Lucian king.

            You have your suspicions, but you say nothing. And you try desperately to ignore the fact that you’re suddenly far, far too warm. The fact that the two of you are the only people for miles around. And above all else, the fact that this is the man who once kidnapped and restrained you for the pleasure of watching your dear best friend run around in a frenzy.

            ‘I’ve started counting, Prompto.’

            Bastard, he gave no warning.

            You decide to give yourself a head start. You fire, and you don’t stop to watch the bullet perforate his chest. Your aim is true enough. And so, you run.

 

You had never intended to return to the facility — if given the choice, you’d never have let it cross your line of sight again — but the guilt of those poor tank-bred clones had eaten away at you. All those years spent in Lestallum with Iggy and Gladio, trying to make things better (and, for the most part, succeeding) were all well and good, but it had always come down to this. Thousands more poor souls bound up in factories like this across the Niflheim continent.

            So you’d made plans, gotten yourself across the seas, gone to scope the place out again.

            When you return, you’re fully intending to bring Cor Leonis with you. A small cadre of hunters, some transportation vehicles. Some way to rescue these poor people.

            But for now, you’re just glad you’ve mapped out the place. You know it like the back of your hand, so when you run through the facility, leaping over tattered shelving units and the debris of experiments long since past their sell-by date, you make almost no mistakes, and you reach the ice-shrouded exit within mere minutes.

            Safe.

            But you can’t stop here.

            The haven. The one you shared with Aranea, that time, back when you were young and simple.

            You remember the location well enough. The hollow in the rock just past the foot of the mountain. Wind’s whistling in your ears, driving hard off the mountainside as you make your way to the cavern.

 

You get there and you find it’s no longer a haven. The glyphs have faded, and the stone lies cold and inert.

            Well. Best you can do is make camp. Go over what intel you gathered. Then on to the next facility. Think about going back to Lucis. Don’t think about Ardyn.

            Like a curse, Ardyn appears at the cave entrance, a silhouette in inky black against the uplit indigo of the snowfields far behind him. How fitting, he’d appear right when you thought his name.

            You tense, you stand up, and draw your gun, ready to defend yourself.

            ‘I made it out unscathed, like you said. Thought you liked to keep your word?’

            ‘You assumed I meant the facility, didn’t you, pet?’

            ‘Don’t call me that.’

            ‘I’ll call you what I like. Now. About my bet.’

            ‘Not much of a bet, really, is it?’ You spit the words out, and you’re right, because he hardly gave you a choice back there.

            He laughs, and the sound is soft. Forgiving.

            ‘I think it’s safe to say I’ve caught you, Prompto. Cornered you. And oh, look, the havens no longer function enough to ward me off — how about that?’

            He steps forth, coat swirling about his ankles, boots crunching on ice and grit. His arms spread and he looks so welcoming, and so terribly kind.

            You don’t trust it one bit. Ignore the burning beneath your winter coat. Don’t trust. Don’t fall.

            It’s nearly time to brandish the gun. If you shoot him just right, again you can stall him long enough to make your escape.

            ‘I want _you_ , Prompto. As I said.’ Ardyn speaks low and resonant as he approaches you, and the hand holding your gun falters. ‘I want to claim you the one way I never did, back then.’

            He reaches you now, and he’s leaning in, fingers extending to brush softly against your chin, raising your face to meet his. Eyes so intense, mouth a straight, firm line. Somehow, all evil plans and machinations notwithstanding, he’s never looked more determined than this. And now his eyes travel down from your eyes to your mouth, tracing the shape invisibly, then further, to the rest of your body and down, down, and now a teasing smile.

            ‘Wait, what?’

            Your voice is embarrassingly quiet, and tremulous in the chill air. Never mind the meagre campfire you’ve got going.

            ‘Ah - was I not speaking loudly enough?’

            You shrug away.

            ‘No, I heard just fine. I …’ You’re not quite sure how to phrase this part. ‘I don’t get it,’ you say finally. ‘If… _this_ … is what you wanted, why didn’t you… I mean, when you had me. You had every opportunity.’

            You’re talking about the Keep, and he knows this too, because his eyebrows are raising. He’s enjoying this.

            ‘Prompto, Prompto… I was rather preoccupied at the time. Your dear Prince, and all that.’

            You want to snort at the diversion. But you do want to know. He’s looking at you like fresh meat dangled off the bone, and it’s very different from before, when you were just a pawn, a toy, a means to an end.

            What changed?

            You’re feeling daring.

            ‘Oh, wait, unless _I_ was the one who turned you. Like, maybe you didn’t realise you liked the sight of struggling young men until you had _me_ in your grasp—’

            This earns you a sharp slap across the face. You rub the spot tenderly; it ignites old bruises, wounds made by those self same hands so many years ago.

            ‘Still your tongue, boy.’

            Oh, _boy_ , now, was it?

            You want to pout, but that would probably play into his fantasies.

            He steps closer and you match him pace for pace, edging back until you meet the pockmarked metasediment of the cavern wall. He’s threatening, teasing to do what he’s just announced he wants to, and it’s sort of terrifying, but also…

            It surprises you, the fact that you actually want him to do it.

            There’s really no need to use the gun here. You let it drop, and his eyes light up.

            ‘Oh, very good.’

            Even though his commendation is shallow, it sets a thrill running through you.

            Would it make sense for him to control you once more?

            This time, it would be in a very different way from before, after all.

            You pause. Inside your mind, you take a deep, deep breath. And continue.

            Your shoulders slump ever so slightly as Ardyn reaches in, hand touching gently your chin once more, that familiar position. Then he traces around the side, to the fold of your ear, caressing softly, and you close your eyes, bracing your mind for anguish or repulsion. Instead, what you feel is warmth. The sensation of contact from another human being — if Ardyn can even be called such — is comforting.

            And because it’s Ardyn, it does weird things to your brain and you think this makes sense, of course it would be him.

            He might hurt you a bit, but he’s not going to kill you, no. Not until Noctis returns, at the very least.

            In a way, you are safe.

            You make a meagre humming noise when he strokes the nape of your neck and he sighs. Then he’s ruffling his hand up, through your golden hair, tearing off your woollen snow cap. One hand braced on the crown of your head, he pushes down, forces you to the ground. ‘Mm. Better.’

            You haven’t specifically said yes to anything, but you get the feeling that wouldn’t have had much effect, regardless of your answer. And you did drop the gun. You dropped the gun. That’s some clear-cut acquiescence, right there.

            Do you want it, though?

            _Maybe_ , a devious part of your mind whispers.

            For a moment you think Ardyn’s going to whip his dick out right there and then, but he doesn’t. He fusses your hair some more, then he crouches to join you where you kneel, his coat falling in a clump upon the frozen rocky surface.

            ‘Allow me my small pleasures while I wait in darkness for the coming of your _king_.’ He spits the last word out, and it’s designed to rile you up, just enough to make you part your lips wide enough so he can come in for a kiss. You hate that he’s resorted to such a tactic, and the first touch of stubbled skin upon yours is a scouring brush, making you bristle away. Then his lips find yours and dive in, all-encompassing, possessing, claiming.

            _Shit_. It feels good.

            You can’t help it. You let out a moan. As he’s kissing you. It makes an odd sound in his mouth.

            Ardyn retracts and stares at you, then laughs. ‘My precious thing, we’ve barely begun.’

            You kind of want him to shut up, because you don’t want to think about this any more than you have to. So you make him stop his ridiculous spiel the only way you can think of. You kiss him first, this time.

            Gods, his lips should not be this soft.

            You’re feeling lightheaded. You tell yourself yeah, it’s probably the snow chill, the weather, the temperature. You shut out the parts of your memories that travel back to those hellish few days spend in Gralea, in the Keep, in the dungeon, waiting for Noctis to come rescue you.

            You shut out the part of your mind that tells you _you hate Ardyn._ Because you, do, you hate him. So much it makes your teeth hurt. You want to see him scoured off the face of the earth, but then, it’s weird, because despite his own anger and his hatred and his petty, longstanding revenge kink, he’s become somehow familiar to you.

            You still hate him, though.

            And while your internal conflict rages, you kiss him again. And again. Lips leaving his to smother devotions upon his chin, his cheek, down his neck and to his collarbone, pushing aside that ridiculous scarf, fingers aiding your mouth by tugging the fabric out of the way.

            He seems taken aback.

            Good.

            You pause in your devotions, and your grin is a satisfied one.

            When he catches this, he puts a stop to it. He takes control once more.

            ‘I think not, my sweet thing.’

            He prises your fingers away, bends them back, twists your arm until you’re halfway to the floor. A little further is all it will take and then —

            You hit the ground with a dull thud. Ardyn’s on top of you now, tugging at your clothing, your zipper, your belt. You left your mind drift, give yourself up to the sensations, but just for a moment. Seconds later you’re pulling him toward you.

            _Fine_ , you think. _Fine._

‘Fuck me,’ you say when your mouth brushes the shell of his ear. There’s a trembling beneath your skin where you hold the sides of his face.

            _Ha._

He gives you a look that makes you want to wither. It pins you to the ground in its intensity. And he hoists one of your legs up to the level of your chest, and pulls at your snow pants. It tugs just enough to make you raise the other knee, shifting a little as he slips down your pants just enough to expose a buttock in the frigid air. Before you can feel the cold, he grabs hard, making you yelp.

            ‘Careful what you wish for, boy.’

            He cups your buttocks more gently now, both hands running over your skin, kneading them like dough, eager to pull and possess every last inch and _why_ , your mind’s screaming _why does it feel so goddamn good?_

In a way, you find it easier to pretend you don’t want it at all.

            You let your head fall to the side, and your eyes fall upon the small flickering fire, tiny bits of ash and woodsmoke casting into the air in a half-alive flurry. You’re not cold in the slightest, which is strange.

            The way in which your body suddenly falls slack does something interesting to Ardyn. His large frame, up until now, has been towering above yours, lording it over you, every minute position engineered seemingly to show dominance but now, now there’s a soft vibrating of the skin and he’s looking almost heady with euphoria at just how much you’ve opened up to him.

            He presses his body against yours, and into the soft muscle of your thigh you feel a thrumming hardness. He’s so fucking hard — because of _you —_ and yeah, you’ve done this, you’ve done this to him and that makes you feel like as much of a god as he seems to enjoy pretending to be.

            You buck up a little, wriggle against his grasp. And this, oh, it makes him properly pin you to the ground, urgency driving his movements. His eyes are hard and inches away from yours and he stares at you then starts kissing again, pressing into you.

            For a moment, the fear returns — because he’s holding you down, he’s restraining you, and gods, you don’t ever want to be back in that place again — but then he’s easing his way below the belt and teasing your cock into life with experienced hands and you’re melting again.

            Fuck. Fine, fall into it.

            It feels so fucking _good._

The real shock, of course, is not when Ardyn murmurs, ‘Oh, you sweet, sweet thing.’ It’s not when he tells you you’re an angel sent from heaven, nor any number of cliché things he’s probably got stacked up in the wings. It’s when he breaks off from worrying the edges of your asshole and plunges a finger in with little delicacy. Something about that rough, merciless intrusion has you panting and straining upward, and this — if the sensation against your thigh is anything to go by — is clearly exciting him.

            It’s a distant thought, one so utterly disconnected from your normal train of thought, when you realise you don’t have any lube.

            You’re thinking of mentioning it, in between fervent kisses, but you never quite get around to it. But moments later it turns out you don’t need to, because Ardyn has come prepared. He says something along the lines of ‘Don’t worry, sweet thing,’ but he may as well not be talking at all for all you’re listening to him.

            He takes down his pants. Pushes your knees up against your chest and holds them there. Your arms are loose where they lay out to the side and this is fine — you hope you look as prone and helpless as you did in the machine, back when…

            Yeah, probably best not to think about it.

            So now he braces against your ass, glans pressing against your entrance and there’s the throb of blood as he pulses with impatience. You let a small, anguished noise escape your throat and this is all the motivation he needs. He angles himself, presses in.

            And when he enters in to you, _gods_ , you never thought it could feel like this. Far from your first time, but then, none of them had ever been like _him._ He’s so damn extra, so freaking overblown and intense that you would have expected no less. In short: he fucks hard.

            Moving back and forth, increasing the pace, ridge of the corona ribbing against the inner walls of your ass and _fuck —_

            You’re losing your goddamn mind.

            Your arms reach out, hands grasping, as you try to pull him closer.

            Ardyn isn’t too happy with this, although, really, it’s just an excuse for him to pin you down again. Gripping your wrists, holding them against the rock surface and fuck, you’d normally complain at how scratchy that is but right now you don’t care. You’re as hard as the material beneath you and you’re not keen on having too much leeway in your movement; you want it taken from you.

            He slams into you hard, setting a relentless and punishing pace, and it’s all you can do to gasp for breath. Then, a moment of tenderness as he drives in to the hilt and holds himself there. He’s so strained and he’s shuddering — you can feel it inside you — and for a while he keeps his eyes closed, face raised toward heaven. Then open, and he’s gazing down at you now, and you start to think his amber eyes are quite handsome.

            Fuck. You hate him.

            You wriggle beneath him; a ploy to get him to go harder again, because you want him to graze your prostate, it’s unbearable having him be so still inside you, but he holds you down all the tighter, and yeah, he starts moving again, but he’s moving slowly, decadently. Every move is for his pleasure only.

            He’s given up entirely on talking now, and you think _finally, I found the shut-up switch._

            Ardyn continues like this, letting you writhe about beneath him, and you know every little movement is making it better for him and you kind of hate that fact, but at the same time there’s the elation that this is _you_ doing this, that in a way, he’s a slave to _you_ right now. Then, as he approaches the edge of his orgasm, he loses it completely and rams in hard, repeatedly, while he comes inside you. It’s so intense, hitting your nerves just right, that you lose track of all thought.

            You’re left on the edge as he collapses atop you, breathless. Your cock is so hard and swollen under him, just begging for attention. But he’s not interested. He extracts himself from you and starts to clean up, sorting himself out with a near-complete detachment.

            ‘Wait…’ You start to speak.

            He turns to face you, and his gaze is no longer devotional, but full of judgement.

            ‘Aren’t you gonna…’ You look pointedly down at the lower half of your body. Right on cue, your cock twitches.

            Ardyn smiles.

            ‘Oh, I’m afraid not.’ He’s finished sorting himself out now, and he stands and takes a small bow. Ridiculous, overplayed, overacted. ‘I leave that to you.’

            And he walks away from the campfire, the bastard, the goddamn bastard, leaving you with your pants still pulled down and your orgasm only halfway-met. At the entrance to the cavern, he stops, tilts his hat.

            ‘I do hope we can play again soon. You ought to return to the Keep sometime.’ A smirk, and he’s off into the darkness. You’re left with the whistling wind and the small crackling fire for company.

            You decide you really, truly hate him.


	2. Chapter 2

nightcall/ **heathen**

 

Just as you expected, the blond Magitek boy is here. Back for the memories, or so you’d like to taunt. But, ah, that would be too easy. There, he’s peering at old documents, hair falling past his eyes in soft swathes as he takes it all in. Prompto Argentum: the little toy soldier with a mind of his own. Such an easy target.

            You know what his intentions are, and it’s just as you would expect. He’s returned to free the remaining living clones from the facility. A real heart of gold.

            When he looks up, finally, and notices you, the shock painted on his face makes everything worth the wait. Now you fence him in, and how small he is when pitted against you. Bless him, he looks like he wants to run. And you hardly blame him.

            ‘Fancy meeting you here.’ You wonder if he’ll even remember the phrase; an idle thought that’s answered not a fraction of a second later when he frowns. Aw, he’s not amused.

            ‘Fuck you.’

            It’s hard not to laugh; he looks like a kitten trying to mewl. You’re enjoying yourself immensely already.

            ‘Now, Prompto, that’s hardly what I’d call a warm welcome.’ You put extra emphasis on the word ‘warm’, mostly because he looks like he’s freezing. He should know better; it’s not his first excursion into the mountains, after all.

            His frown deepens, and gosh, he’s so cute.

            You’re highly entertained, and so you rest there, inches away from him, waiting to see what he will say next.

            Eventually, he bites.

            ‘What do you want, huh?’

            You make sure to spend extra moments undressing him with your eyes, partly because you want him to realise without having to specify — that kills the mood, honestly — and partly because doing so is just such an enjoyable act.

            ‘I want _you_.’

            ‘M-me?’

            The tremble’s there in his voice and why does he even need to ask? It ought to be obvious.

            ‘Yes, you. Come on, Prompto — for old time’s sake! Come on and humour an old man now, will you?’

            ‘I don’t think so,’ Prompto replies, and you realise that so far he’s not even dared to say your name. Ardyn, Chancellor, even The Accursed — none of these words pass his lips. But then, names are powerful things, and Prompto Argentum, or rather, Subject NH01987, knows that all too well. He’s edging backward now, although he lacks sufficient space for manoeuvring. The thought crosses your mind that he’ll probably try shooting you just to get away.

            Both of you know it’ll only give him a mild head start. You’re half tempted to let him do it, just so you can have an excuse to chase him and pin him down without mercy. But you’re not like those bastard Astrals — you’re a generous man. You let him choose his fate.

            Well. Sort of. But he doesn’t need to know that yet.

            ‘I’ll give you one chance to get out of here unscathed. If you don’t, if I catch you, well…’ You leave the rest of the sentence to his imagination and oh, is it ever effective. His eyes widen, so pure, so innocent, and he stares at you, like he’s studying a wild animal. He’s focussing so intensely you start to wonder if he’s eyeing you as much as you were him mere seconds ago.

            What a fine feeling that is.

            But he’s taking a little too long, caught like a rabbit in the headlights as he is. ‘I’ve started counting, Prompto,’ you say, and this kicks him into action. He looks so angry with you — how adorable — and it’s all you can do to stop yourself giving him a physical nudge. You’d prefer to get this all done without being shot, if at all possible.

            He fires anyway. Then he runs off without looking back, leaving you reeling on the ground, wheezing and gasping for breath as your accursed lungs already begin the excruciating process of healing over the bullet wound.

 

Following Prompto isn’t exactly difficult. He makes stupid mistakes when he’s frightened, and it’s not hard to see what doors he’s passed through, what boxes he’s knocked over. The snowprints tell the rest of the story when you get outside.

            You already know he’ll have headed for the closest haven. You know where it is. Little insulated gem of a campsite, no longer protected by the sacred glyphs. A place you can set foot.

            By the time you’ve reached it, your wounds have completely healed. The only evidence that anything has happened is a small frayed patch of fabric over your heart. Your coat is so dark the bloodstains can’t be seen, and, while your undershirt is white, for what you’re about to do, you won’t be needing to remove it. 

            He’s already got a fire going, and you note how much better he’s gotten at this basic survival skill since he stopped travelling with that insufferable Shield, always taking charge before anyone else had a chance. But then, that’s Prompto’s specialty, even if he doesn’t see it himself. Abandon him and watch him pull through against insurmountable odds. There’s something admirable in that, and combined with his small, seemingly-delicate frame and his absolute eagerness to please… How could you not want him?

            Right as you think this, he notices you. A full-body flinch, then he’s upright, gun at the ready, face as stony as the rock he stands on.

            ‘I made it out unscathed, like you said. Thought you liked to keep your word?’

            ‘You assumed I meant the facility, didn’t you, pet?’

            Your show of affection has the intended effect. ‘Don’t call me that.’

            ‘I’ll call you what I like. Now. About my bet.’

            ‘Not much of a bet, really, is it?’ He’s so angry it makes you laugh, although not in an unkind way. Again, it’s that spirited thing. You can’t resist it.

            ‘I think it’s safe to say I’ve caught you, Prompto. Cornered you. And oh, look, the havens no longer function enough to ward me off — how about that?’

            You step across the threshold, making a huge show of the fact. He’s thinking about shooting you again; something you would strongly advise against. Being shot once makes you a little irritable. Twice, now that would just put you in a downright uncharitable mood.

            ‘I want _you_ , Prompto. As I said.’ Your voice hits the low end of your register and, somewhat masochistically, you enjoy the way it rumbles around the newly-knitted bones of your ribs. Prompto seems to enjoy it too — his grip is wavering. You decide it’s the perfect moment to be a little blunt. ‘I want to claim you the one way I never did, back then.’

            He’s trying to act like he doesn’t want it, but he’s a terrible liar. Poor boy can’t resist the soft touches, you think, as you lean forth, letting your fingers trace across the smooth skin of his cheek and gods, how smooth it is.

            You undress him with your eyes again while his cheeks blush a bright red and he says, in the smallest, meekest voice imaginable, ‘Wait, what?’

            ‘Ah - was I not speaking loudly enough?’

            He shrugs away from your touch, leaving your fingers cold.

            ‘No, I heard just fine. I … I don’t get it. If… _this_ … is what you wanted, why didn’t you… I mean, when you had me. You had every opportunity.’

            He’s trying so hard to make sense of this, and it’s really quite adorable.

            ‘Prompto, Prompto… I was rather preoccupied at the time. Your dear Prince, and all that.’

            You don’t want to focus on Noctis. Right now, Prompto is far more interesting and you honestly don’t know how you’ve managed to hold yourself back all this time with him standing there so easily-attainable right before you.

            ‘Oh, wait, unless _I_ was the one who turned you. Like, maybe you didn’t realise you liked the sight of struggling young men until you had _me_ in your grasp—’

            For some reason, the words sting. It’s a silly, insignificant thing, really, and it’s more that he’s so presumptuous than anything else. As if you were so devoid of lust before you met him.

            Letting anger fester away inside is a bad habit of yours, and you’ve spent a long time teaching yourself to correct that. So you strike him hard across the face, hard enough to make him cry out and clap a hand to the spot, gingerly rubbing the reddened skin. A shame to mar that pretty face, but at the same time, you quite like the way he looks when he’s knocked around like that.

            ‘Still your tongue, boy,’ you say, because you can’t follow up a slap with silence, or that would betray your emotions all the more. And as you step closer, he steps back, until now he’s against the wall and there’s nowhere left to go. Exactly where you want him.

            He surprises you by dropping the gun. In the dull clatter it leaves behind, you say, ‘Oh, very good.’ Prompto pauses in the wake of your praise, then his shoulders slump. He’s submitting, he’s submitting to you, and it’s setting your blood on fire. You want to —

            You reach forth again. Start with another simple stroke of his chin, that tender, velvety skin. It’s so tempting to just grab him and force him down, so tempting to let your desire override your mind. But no. This is about control, about pulling him in under your sway. And the boy needs fuss.

            So you ghost your fingers round to the shell of his ear and stroke there, igniting shivers. He’s half-expecting you to be rough, closing his eyes as if about to receive a blow, and that makes sense, after your sharp slap mere seconds ago. But even that works in your favour right now, because when he receives those tender, comforting strokes along the nape of his neck, he actually murmurs in pleasure.

            The woollen hat he’s pulled over his head during the rush into the snow doesn’t do any favours by hiding that gorgeous hair, so you tug the thing free and let it fall to the ground. You can’t resist a small ruffle of his hair to top it off, it’s just so soft beneath your hands and the way it slips between your fingers is like silk. Irresistible. And he clearly likes it.

            When you flatten your palm and push him to the ground, you don’t push hard. Prompto’s like putty in your hands now, folding beneath you. Not taking any initiative but not protesting, either. You get him on his knees and he looks ready to serve, with those perfect, parted lips and those wide eyes. For a moment, you consider getting him to take you in his mouth. But just for a moment, because no, that would be too easy, and you didn’t come all this way just for a blowjob that might turn out to be second-rate.

            You want to own him. You want to get deep inside, feel every inch of him.

            And so you fuss him some more. Then, crouching down until your face is level with his, you decide you want to kiss him. So you say, ‘Allow me my small pleasures while I wait in darkness for the coming of your _king_.’

            When his lips part wider — reacting to the last stressed word, no doubt — you take advantage of the moment to kiss him. You press in, as if you’re set on consuming him entirely, and it’s so fervent and passionate that he starts to squirm against you and, by the gods, feeling him _respond_ like this is making you so much harder than you could have imagined.

            It’s far from the first time you’ve gotten hard thinking about him, but thinking about Prompto and running one’s tongue into the warm cavity of his mouth are two very different things. This has you so rock solid you’re on the verge of agony.

            And then he moans into your mouth and you stop, because the noise belies his feelings completely. He’s more taken in by this than you are, and that’s saying a lot. ‘My precious thing, we’ve barely begun,’ you say, and you’re enjoying the ire dancing in his eyes, you’re about to follow up with more, but then he does something completely unexpected and shuts you up with a kiss.

            A deep warmth runs through you as flesh presses upon flesh, and for a moment you’re torn. Him being so willing was never part of the plan. Not that you’re complaining. In fact, you feel more like a saint than ever you did before under the Church of Solheim as he rains kisses over your face. You’re staring at him all the while, and you’re so very impressed, because there’s a small quirk crossing his face, and it’s clear that he’s trying hard not to think about the last time he was here, or indeed, any of the various times you’ve crossed paths. Gods, how he must hate you. And look, how hard he tries.

            You’re interested, for a while, in how long he intends to keep this up for, just for the sake of shutting you up. Then, when he starts prying into the soft hollow of your neckline, pulling your collar and scarf aside, he smiles, and there’s that cocky look once more.

            Bless him, he’s starting to get rather ahead of himself. He actually thinks he stands a chance at some semblance of control?

            You catch his fingers where they twist in the folds of your scarf, and with a strong grip you prise them away.

            ‘I think not, my sweet thing.’

            You lean forward until your crouch becomes a kneel and you twist back his wrist, force him to the floor. He doesn’t resist as much as you expect, and it frustrates you just enough to make you grip harder. He hits the ground all too fast and he looks shocked, but you’re above him now, pinning him down, and it incites you, twisting the situation back under your control like this, so quietly and softly and absolutely, that you can’t leave your hands off him. Within seconds you’re at his belt, you’re loosening his clothing with every scrap of energy you have.

            For a moment his eyes glaze over, and there’s that glorious surrender you love so much. Then, as before, things take a sharp turn as Prompto snaps back to the scene and reaches up to you, pulls you close, palms flat against your cheeks.

            ‘Fuck me,’ he whispers, and it’s such a sin to hear from that pure, innocent voice. He may be saying it just to have some control over what’s about to happen, but all the same, it sets you alight. You may be on top of him, but you’re trembling, and he can tell because he’s smirking now.

            This incites you perhaps more than it should, and you want nothing more than to fuck his brains out until he’s incapable of anything beyond a helpless murmur. You glare, then bend one of his legs up until his knee is pressed into his chest, and you’re wrenching his trousers down until you’ve got about as much access as you need — the other leg ends up following, knee raised and listing to the side — revealing pale skin you can’t help but grab. You draw out one such submissive noise in the process and this pleases you.

            ‘Careful what you wish for, boy.’

            Now you run your hands over his exposed skin, pressing and fondling, edging yourself as you enjoy your mastery. He’s certainly enjoying it too, if his squirming is anything to go by, and he clearly tries to ignore this fact, because he attempts to fall slack, head lolling to the side, eyes cast blankly at the campfire. A poor attempt at dissociation, but an exceedingly attractive one. He knows he shouldn’t be doing this. He knows he should be hating this. And just look at how he’s letting you in. His body is an open invitation — he’s not going to resist, you can take what you want — and it makes your skin thrum with energy.

            You press your erection against him and he gyrates up against you. It’s the final little push you need. No holds barred now — you put your full weight on him and you claim his mouth in a violent smattering of kisses. You’re rough with his cock and it’s working him up into such a state, writhing beneath you and twitching as he stains your hands with precome.

            You run your mouth now, peppering the air with all manner of words sweet and saccharine and ungodly in nature. And when you drive a finger hard into his ass, you time it with one of the sweeter phrases, just for the thrill of the dissonance.

            The beautiful boy beneath you turns to a high-pitched keening as you plunge in, targeting the tender bundle of nerves way back at the crook of his coccyx. What a treat — and yet he’s looking so distressed, as though he wants to mention something but can find neither the words nor the strength. He really is such a perfect victim.

‘Don’t worry, sweet thing,’ you murmur, and you fish for lubricant. As if you would have forgotten something so crucial. You want it to feel good, and not necessarily for him. Whatever pleasure the friction of going in dry may give, it simply does not compare, and besides, you want to sink in with as little resistance as possible. Well, let the only resistance be what his mind gives you.

            You prepare yourself now, and he watches you somewhat helplessly, which excites you all the more. You imagine forcing him to prepare you, perhaps with his mouth, perhaps with his hands, but no. It’s much more fun to have him witness what’s about to happen, lying prone there as though he has no choice.

            In a way, he doesn’t.

            Despite the way he whispered _Fuck me_.

            You grunt and push his knees up higher to his chest, holding him there, and he complies by letting his arms fall loose out to the side. Gods, how you adore that position. As you take it in, as you appreciate it, you line yourself up against his entrance and you pause there for a moment, until he makes the most fragile little cry that sets your blood on fire and you grip his thigh fiercely, and drive your cock in to his ass. Crystal blue eyes open wide in shock and he gasps as you thrust. Again and again you drive in, merciless, unrelenting, and the poor beauty is struggling to cope. Has he ever taken anyone as generous as you before?

            One look at that face, and you think not.

            His ass is so tight around your girth, his walls are so smooth it sends the most decadent shivers through your groin, so deep and so intense it near on makes the nerves on the crown of your head buzz.

            You’re trying to get a good angle so you can see yourself enter him, but — oh, and it’s strange now, he’s reaching up, trying to pull you down, get your face closer to his. It’s … it’s rather adorable, although your mind is in no capacity to consider it as such, because he’s ruining the martyr’s pose he had so kindly thought to put himself in for you.

            It will not do.

            You force his wrists back into position, somewhat angrily, and he doesn’t look unhappy about this at all. You know what real unhappiness looks like, and this cute little pout is not it. He’s achingly hard, and it’s a wonder he hasn’t tried to coax you into touching him.

            Because you feel like torturing him just a little — old habits die hard — you thrust in until you’re buried as deep as you can get inside him. It draws a shamefully luxurious moan from him, which turns to fidgeting and fretting as you hold yourself there, savouring every last inch of him. Your eyes shutter closed and you tilt your head back, losing yourself to the sensation. Prompto has you in complete and utter rapture, and you want to keep him ruined like this forever. So you hold yourself there a little bit longer than you initially intended, because this is all part of your claiming. Your territory. Your mark.

            He’s wriggling too much now, bucking upward in a bid to get you to thrust again, and his cock’s twitching so plaintively. You hold him down, grip harder, and yes, finally, slowly, you start to move.

            You go slow, incredibly slow, and it’s clear this is almost as unbearable for him as the stillness, because he’s still writhing. He’s likely aware that his movements are causing the most delicious sensations for you, but it doesn’t stop him. For once, you are at a loss for words, and you content yourself with climbing the crest of your oncoming orgasm with heady abandon.

            When you reach orgasm, you lose yourself completely, and you give up on all delicacy, slamming into him brutally, using him like a piece of meat, and with all he’s submitted to you, he’s inert in your clutches, and the only indication that he’s even alive at all are the short, quickened gasps he makes on each thrust. It’s a glorious thing.

            You come inside him, and you fall onto him once the tension melts away from your body. You’re breathless, your head’s spinning, and all you can think is that he was worth the wait, every inch of his flesh was worth the wait.

            Beneath you, pressed between his thigh and your belly, you can feel his cock, pulsing and rock solid, waiting for attention to be turned its way.

            As if you would be so kind. You’ve already given him so much. So alas, it’s time you left poor Prompto to the cold and the meagre comforts of his campsite fire. You pull out of him and clean yourself up with what material you have available, switching from heady, post-orgasmic ardour to cold disaffection.

            ‘Wait…’ He realises what you’re doing, and oh dear, how fretful he sounds.

            You fix him with a severe stare. You say nothing, which provokes him to continue.

            ‘Aren’t you gonna…’ He’s indicating somewhat mournfully down towards his crotch now, and in corroboration, his cock twitches. It makes you smile; the sweet satisfaction is too much, it’s too hilarious.

            ‘Oh, I’m afraid not,’ you say, and because you’ve now finished fixing your belt, you stand and take a bow. ‘I leave that to you.’ Your swagger is back in your step when you walk away from the campfire, leaving him half-undressed and in such a compromised state. He’s huffing, you can hear it — how he must hate you — and so, when you reach the edge of the haven grounds, you put the icing on the cake. You turn to bid him farewell at the cavern entrance, a small dip of the hat, another smirk.

            ‘I do hope we can play again soon. You ought to return to the Keep sometime.’ What a treat that would be.

            Well. You know where to find him, should you wish it.


End file.
